


Deadeye

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadlock Gang, Deadlock McCree, Gen, Motorcycles, Pre-Blackwatch, Pre-Recall, outlaw motorcycle gangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: A dozen motorcycles rumbled down the highway in tight formation on patrol along the edge of their territory, the riders wearing their jackets and vests proudly, defying both the feeble remnants of law and order and the desert sun with black leather worn supple from active use. One jacket at the front, however, was shiny and new, the three patches still almost blue-white under the sun.His shaggy brown hair whipped back in the dry wind beneath his helmet, and his sunglasses flashed and shone in the desert heat. He looked like a kid playing dress-up, with his almost brand new cut, his bright red bandana tied around his neck like an anti-Boy Scout, and the seven scraggly hairs on his chin he was clearly proud of. His bike was old but lovingly maintained, and looked comically large under a scrawny kid like him. The pistol at his hip matched the bike far more than the boy, but if his skill at handling the motorcycle and his member patches were any clue, he was a force to be reckoned with when that gun was in his hand.





	Deadeye

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally written for Bullseye!. Following the disastrous reveal of the admin's wildly unethical behavior, the contributors decided to start posting our works early--we produced this for charity, and it was always our intention to post our works once all the 'zines had been sent. Since we're not certain what time frame they'll actually go out, however (I'm not even sure if the PDF copies have been sent as of today!), we're all publishing now-ish. To my fellow contributors and all the supporters who bought the 'zine, thank you and I'm sorry. <3
> 
> My contribution was the first entry in 'The Gunslinger', the Jesse-centric portion of the 'zine. I've been wanting to explore Deadlock-era Jesse, and the 'zine at least gave me the opportunity to do so. Silver linings, I guess?

The engines and repulsors on cars and trucks were supposed to be quiet, part of widespread efforts at reducing all forms of pollution in the cities.

The hoverbikes of the Deadlock Rebels, however, could be heard coming from over the horizon, their engines carefully and lovingly modified for power, speed, and decibels. Each one had a unique voice, a chorus of rumbling basses droning in relative unison. Occasionally each voice would rise up in a solo, harmonizing with the others as they passed by traffic, then shifted and shuffled back into their formation, back into their comfortable harmonious roar.

A dozen motorcycles rumbled down the highway in tight formation on patrol along the edge of their territory, the riders wearing their jackets and vests proudly, defying both the feeble remnants of law and order and the desert sun with black leather worn supple from active use. One jacket at the front, however, was shiny and new, the three patches still almost blue-white under the sun.

His shaggy brown hair whipped back in the dry wind beneath his helmet, and his sunglasses flashed and shone in the desert heat. He looked like a kid playing dress-up, with his almost brand new cut, his bright red bandana tied around his neck like an anti-Boy Scout, and the seven scraggly hairs on his chin he was clearly proud of. His bike was old but lovingly maintained, and looked comically large under a scrawny kid like him. The pistol at his hip matched the bike far more than the boy, but if his skill at handling the motorcycle and his member patches were any clue, he was a force to be reckoned with when that gun was in his hand.

. . .

O'Flaherty, the sergeant-at-arms was not a young man anymore. Like many of the other Deadlock Rebel officers, he was a grey-haired veteran of the Omnic Crisis, though he was a good deal more whole than some of the others. The treasurer was down one organic leg, the secretary missing three flesh fingers; good thing he could still roll the throttle, or else he’d have had to turn in his colors early.

If the Deadlock Rebels were going to make it to their centennial, though, they needed new blood. Luckily, there was no shortage of guys who were in the market for a new family after the Crisis. Their newest was barely old enough to have peach fuzz—and even though he’d finally earned his patch, the kid was still O’Flaherty’s responsibility.

“Hey kid—the hell you doing?”

Jesse’s head popped up from behind the workbench, his usual cigarette replaced with a toothpick—he knew better than to smoke in the garage, what with all the motor oil, gasoline, chrome and ammunition stacked up in the place. O’Flaherty was peering over the bench, an unkempt brow cocked. It looked like the kid was sorting nuts and bolts. Garbage work.

“Well, I was helpin’ tune up the bikes after that last run, an’ jes’ thought I’d tidy up a bit, sir.”

“You’re not a prospect anymore, you ain’t got nothing to prove,” O'Flaherty said, both of them knowing that was only half true. “C’mon, we’ve got places to be. The Vagos want a sit-down; we’ve gotta go scout out the meet. You’re on my wrecking crew.” The man watched as Jesse scrambled to his feet, brushing shop debris from his jeans.

“Uh, yessir, lemme jes’ get my leathers.”

“You aren’t wearing those dumb chaps, are you?” O’Flaherty smirked.

“They’re fer protection,” Jesse replied, pouting slightly.

“Yeah, whatever. Maybe we’ll swing by the strip club on the way back,” O’Flaherty chuckled, “See if you can start earning those club dues.”

. . .

The engines roared, echoing across the desert as they rode along Old Route 66 to the Arizona border. Lupton was safely nestled far enough inside tribal land that the Narbonas MC had no worries about challenges from the outside, and it’s convenient location made it a popular waystation for long rides, as well as a safe haven for clubs to have sit-downs without worrying about racking up a body count.

“The gas on 2 will be $200,” the man behind the counter said, not even glancing at the register.

“Bullshit inflation, man,” the oldest biker muttered, “Back when I first started ridin’, it was 15 bucks to fill my Harley.”

“This coupon any good here?” Jesse asked, pulling an ID card from behind his driver’s license.

“Kiowa Apache? You’re a little far from home, brother.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t we all?”

“I can give you the discount... That’s not the reason they patched you in, is it?” the cashier asked, his voice dropping.

“Hell, I hope not,” Jesse sighed, pushing a wad of non-sequential unmarked bills across the counter.

“C’mon, kid, we’ve gotta get across the street, scope it out,” O’Flaherty said. “I’m on point. Dirty, kid, scout the outside real quick.”

“You got it, Boss,” Jesse said, jogging to his bike ahead of the other two members of the wrecking crew. They didn’t even bother putting their helmets on to ride just down the road, their hoverbikes gleaming in the midday sun. If it weren’t for the need to flaunt their presence, they would have just left the bikes at the gas station. But for a sit-down at a diner, there was no reason to lay low.

“Doesn’t look like our associates have arrived yet,” Dirty remarked, groaning slightly as he slid off his bike and adjusted his cut. “Prosp—kid, go take a walkabout.”

Jesse huffed, fiddling with the velcro on his gloves as he sauntered off to the east end of the building. He’d earned his top rocker a month ago, but he still got called "Prospect" at least once a week. Sure, he was the junior patch, but he was supposed to be past this shit; when it wasn’t "Prospect", it was "kid". He was half afraid that his road name would just end up being ‘Kid’ at this point.

“Might not be so bad… _Billy the Kid_ ,” Jesse mused, kicking at the hard-pan as he circled around the corner, “No reason daddy should get t’ hog such a good name,” he scoffed. He was, after all, the latest in the infamous McCree tradition.

‘Jesse James McCree’ had a hell of a name to live up to, but if patching into an outlaw motorcycle club at the tender age of 17 was anything to go by, he was well on his way. He’d seen a hell of a lot more action than his father had—at least up until the Crisis landed right on their front porch—and at this rate, he could probably kick up enough shit and leave enough smoke and blood behind to help ol’ Bill McCree posthumously live up to his namesake, too.

Assuming he didn’t get his brains blown out first. Deadlock’s latest dust-up with the Hell’s Hitmen was ruffling feathers all the way back to San Bernardino—The Green Nation wasn’t too happy about some upstart puppet club of theirs spitting in the face of one of the fellow granddaddies of the 1% world, threatening a peace that had lasted for a few years now.

His gaze narrowed as he watched two cooks taking their smoke break behind the building, his hand casually drifting to his holster.

No club ink. One had been on the inside, based on his tattoos, but no serious affiliations. His gaze flicked past them, catching sight of Dirty as he strolled casually up to the cooks.

“Can I bum a smoke?” the old man asked, his voice gravely from years of abuse.

“You look like you’ve got five kinds of emphysema, old timer,” the skinny cook remarked, but he handed over a cigarette anyway.

“You boys seen any unfriendly types ‘round here?” Dirty asked, glancing back at Jesse as he approached.

“You look pretty unfriendly, ese,” the cook replied, cocking a brow.

“Hey, show some respect,” the larger cook growled, looking back at Dirty and starting as Jesse appeared at his elbow, silent as a shadow. “…Who’s unfriendly to you?”

“Mongrels, Crimson Skulls, Steel,” Dirty continued, as if that last one needed stating—the Steel Syndicate was the sole Omnic-only outlaw club in North America. They had no allies. No support clubs. They’d have to ride an awful long ways south of the border to find anyone willing to sit down with them, let alone ride with them.

“Hell’s Hitmen,” Jesse added, pitching his voice downward to sound less like a squeaky teen.

“None of them peckerwoods’ve shown their faces around here,” the man replied, crossing his arms and stretching the spiderweb tattoos on his elbows.

“I think there were some Mongrels in here the other day,” the skinny cook remarked, looking to his partner for support.

“Those weren’t Mongrels, you idiot, they were Mongols. Old-school. Friendlies.”

“Mongrels, Mongols, how the hell is anyone supposed to keep all these gangs straight?”

“Well, if they start shootin’ at you, that sets the record straight real quick,” Jesse replied, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“Well, thanks for the smoke, anyway,” Dirty said, nodding as he turned back to the corner, Jesse a half-step behind. “Keep your eyes peeled, kid. We don’t know jack going into this.”

“I hear ya,” Jesse murmured, turning the corner and sweeping his gaze across the hovercars and trucks in the parking lot. “See that there panel van?”

“Yeah, I see it, kid. I’ll go check it out. You go inside with O’Flaherty,” Dirty said, slowing down as Jesse jogged toward the door to the bar.

The interior was relatively dark and vaguely smoky, the harsh sun outside too high overhead to cast any light into the dingy little diner. A first glance didn’t turn up anything suspicious. No colors to be seen, no unfriendly ink, no tin cans. Dirty pushed the door open, shrugging.

“That van’s been abandoned here for a while. Engine’s cold, dust in the repulsors, nobody’s opened the doors for a while, either.”

“Hm. We’ll keep an eye on it,” O’Flaherty nodded, pulling out a burner phone and dialing. “Looks clear. C’mon down.” He held the phone for a few more moments before hanging up. “We’ve got about 15 minutes to ourselves, boys. Let’s grab a bite to eat at least.”

The burgers were soggy and the grilled cheese was burnt, but nobody had to suffer for very long thanks to the slow kitchen; the bikers had barely pushed their plates away in disgust when the door opened again, jingling the bell.

The President of the Deadlock Rebels looked very much like a formerly athletic man gone to seed. He was tall, which somewhat balanced out the roundness of his belly, and his shoulders were broad. Though he likely only had a few good punches left in him, it was clear that no one would want to be on the receiving end of one. His hair, once a glorious California blonde, had faded quickly to gray under the influence of the lifestyle, and his beard was grizzled and thick. The VP was younger, naturally, but looked just as hard. His tattoos went all the way up his neck and down to the knuckles on both hands. Between that and his curly black hair, he looked like the anti-Superman.

“Burger any good?” the President asked, nodding at the barely-touched plate.

“It’s about the worst garbage I’ve ever eaten, and I ate the rations back in the Crisis,” O’Flaherty said, waving it away.

“Frybread’s the only good food in this joint,” the VP remarked, pulling a chair from a nearby table and sitting in it backwards.

“Saw the Vagos on our way in the door, looks like we’re on schedule,” the President remarked. Almost as if on cue, the bell over the front door rang again. A group of five men in denim cuts walked in with great caution, their gaze scouring the interior.

“Hope we didn’t keep you waiting long,” the man on point said. His jaw was supported with a metal prosthesis, and an electrolarynx assisted his speech. Jesse tried not to stare. Staring at war-wounds was rude.

“You know you didn’t,” the President smirked. “Name’s Cain, this here’s my VP, Slug. An’ back here’s Lucky O’Flaherty, Dirty, and, uh…the new kid.” He did his best not to disrespect the kid now that he was a patch, but it was hard to keep from slipping up sometimes. At least he was actually putting in the effort, unlike some of the guys. Lead by example, and all that jazz.

“Letting ‘em start awful young, aren’t you?” the Vagos president remarked, smirking with the flesh side of his face.

“Hey, I was raised in the life,” Cain smirked, holding his arms wide. “No reason he should have to keep it up as a prospect if he’s proved his worth.”

“Must be impressive,” the Vagos VP remarked.

Without any warning, gunfire ripped through the front of the diner, glass shattering, bullets pinging off of the walls. More smoke filled the air, dust, screams, the scent of blood—

“Hitmen?” Slug shouted.

“No way, man! Wouldn’t turn on us!” one of the Vagos yelled back.

“C’mon! Jesse!” O’Flaherty yelled, keeping his head down as he ran half-bent toward the door, pistol in hand. Jesse slid out from under the booth, glass crunching under his boots as he ran for the now empty doorframe.

The doors of the abandoned van were open, an Omnic in an ill-fitting leather jacket was spraying bullets across the front of the diner with what looked to be an old salvaged E-54 gatling gun while several more leather-clad human outlaws fired into the fray, more than a few bullets finding their way into the motorcycles parked out front.

Anyone would recognize the red patches on their jackets. The Crimson Skulls.

O’Flaherty took aim at the van, squeezing out a few rounds into the Omnic as he slowly advanced, his face a mask of grim determination. This was familiar. More shots flew—returning volleys from inside the trashed diner. Dirty was shouldering open the wrecked door, unable to squeeze under the push bar, while two Vagos leaned over broken glass to avenge their ruined bikes. One Skull fell, then another—

Jesse’s attention focused as he heard the Skulls yelling to each other, the engines on their hoverbikes revving as they peeled out of the parking lot. He launched himself after them, as if he could chase them down on foot, his heavy pistol in hand, the weight pulling his forward with every pump of his arms.

They were putting down a lot of distance, the cackling red skull patches mocking him as they roared away.

He had one chance.

The heat of the noonday sun was causing the air over the highway to shimmer. Jesse squared his stance, holding his gun steady as he slowly let out a breath, taking careful aim through the rippling heat. The trigger on his pistol was heavy but it felt like a part of him as he gave it a firm, even squeeze.

The pistol kicked hard, but Jesse knew it would. It was no problem. He expected it. Compensating for it was natural by now. One—two—three shots rang out like thunder.

Three bikes spun out of control ahead on the highway, the only movement from where their riders fell was the shimmering hot air above the asphalt.

“Jesus, man,” O’Flaherty muttered from somewhere at Jesse’s right. “Shit, that’s…what, 200 yards?”

“At least. That'd be impressive enough with a rifle,” one of the Vagos remarked with a low whistle. “Y’know, under the circumstances…”

“Hey, nice shooting there, Deadeye,” Cain chuckled, his hand heavy with rings as it landed on Jesse’s shoulder.

Jesse chuckled softly, slowly holstering his pistol.

Jesse “Deadeye” McCree…that was a name he could get used to carrying.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Deadeye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13958343) by [watery_weasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watery_weasel/pseuds/watery_weasel)




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